


Los Años de Música

by Jubalii



Category: Coco (2017)
Genre: Basically How Héctor Won Imelda, Canon Compliant, Courtship, Ernesto is also there but... he's Ernesto, F/M, First Dates, First Kiss, First Meetings, Imelda's POV throughout, Introspection, Marriage, Pre-Canon, Romance, eventual adult content, sorry in advance, this is self-indulgent as hell
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-18
Updated: 2018-01-18
Packaged: 2019-03-06 08:25:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13407312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jubalii/pseuds/Jubalii
Summary: Imelda has no way of knowing if Miguel can save Héctor or not. As she tends to him in what might be his last moments, she recalls how he won her heart in the first place.





	Los Años de Música

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Héctor is having a bad time, but this hot news story is really more important.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: Remember how every year I say I won't make new stories until I finish the old ones? And remember how every year, I break the promise I made to myself?
> 
> Here I am, breaking it again. And this time, it's for a very self-indulgent Héctor/Imelda pre-canon fic. Experience and enjoy as I slowly dig my own grave.
> 
> ( I'm talking out of my head about the whole skull markings thing. It's just a headcanon of mine (as far as I know). I never looked at the twins closely enough to make sure their markings weren't identical, either…. )

"I promise! I promise I won't let Coco forget—"

The rest of Miguel's sentence was ripped from them, caught up in the fierce whirlwind that tore him away,  _cempasúchil_  petals spiraling in the air before fluttering down around them like orange snow. Pepita raised her head to sniff at them as they fell, purring in contentment. No trace of the boy was left, save the red hoodie that Julio quickly dusted off and folded.

He was no longer in the Land of the Dead; that, at least, was as it should be.

Imelda sighed, feeling an immense relief. She had been so worried all night about her great-great-grandson, terribly afraid that he would turn into a skeleton before she could save him, either by curse or—even worse—by accidentally getting himself killed in some scheme. She had worried not only for the boy's sake, but for her family's; as a mother she could very well guess the gripping terror Luisa must have been in all night, growing increasingly frantic as they were unable to find her son.

"It's done, Héctor." She looked down at his hand, limp between both of hers. He had miniscule cracks on his fingers feathering up the brittle, gray bones. It was so different from the strong hands she remembered, long, graceful fingers making magic with guitar strings. "Héctor?" She squeezed his hand. The leftover breeze from Miguel's magical winds stirred the lank strands of hair that draped over his forehead. He didn't move. "H- Héctor?!"

"Mamá Imelda." Julio called to her, but she couldn't answer; her voice stuck in her throat, choking her. She lightly shook Héctor by the shoulders, afraid to be rough. A part of her feared that if she grasped him too hard, he would shatter into dust and fall through her fingers, lost on the wind. When he didn't respond she barely smacked his cheeks, trying to wake him up.

"Héctor,  _abre tus ojos_ …." His eyes remained closed, mouth partly open in a dead faint. "Héctor—" She lifted him by the shoulders, his head falling back lifelessly.  _No, no! Not like this!_ "Héctor,  _please_."

"Is he… breathing?" Victoria asked, craning her head to try and see without getting any closer to where he lay. Rosita muffled a sob, turning from the scene with her hands over her face. Julio took off his hat, holding it in his hands as he watched sadly.

"Yes, of course he is!" she snapped, noting the shallow movement of his ribcage.  _Barely_ …  _ay, Miguel_!  _Hurry, mijo_! Even as she thought the words, she knew it to be a fruitless effort. Even if Miguel  _could_ somehow get back to Coco in time…. Without Héctor's photo, what could be done? He had nothing to jog his Mamá Coco's memory!

It wasn't his fault, of course. He had tried everything he could. That was the worst of it: Miguel had tried his best, but it just hadn't been enough.  _Oh, if only we had more_ _ **time**_ _! If only I had been able to make it offstage faster, and could have sent him home right then and there!_

"O-Oscar." Her voice shook as she called for her brothers. "Felipe." They were beside her in a flash, kneeling down with one hand on each of her shoulders. She drew strength from their touch, watching as they bent over Héctor with mirrored expressions of helplessness. For all their inventive genius, there was nothing they could do to stop this. "Can you pick him up, gently? We have to take him home."

" _Sí_ ,  _hermana_ ," Oscar looked at Felipe over her head. "But… I don't think—"

"He died once in the cold once already." Her voice cracked and she cleared her throat, speaking around the lump that had formed near her breastbone. "I won't let that happen again." She knew what they meant to say; very likely, he would disappear before they could haul him out of the arena. But she had to try; she wouldn't be able to live with herself if she didn't. Everyone deserved the chance to die in a warm, safe place.

She looked up to see Julio standing with his sister and daughter, one arm around each. They all nodded at her, agreeing with her decision. Victoria detached herself long enough to walk across the ledge, picking up the frayed straw hat and gently brushing the petals from its tattered brim.

"Be careful." Oscar positioned himself between Héctor's legs, grabbing his knees while Felipe reached under each arm. They hoisted him up, a pair of paramedics with no stretcher; his head fell into Felipe's stomach cavity, the latter grimacing as he tried to push it to the side without losing his hold. She nodded, walking by their sides while they toted him along as if he were nothing more than a large roll of uncut leather.

"The curtain," she said, leading the way anxiously to the hanging red cloth that separated from the main stage. Ernesto had come onstage somehow, so there must have been stairs in the wings. If they could just find them and get back to the trap room without disturbing the drapes and revealing—

" _Dios mío_!"

There was a  _swish_ of fabric as the curtains opened before them, revealing their party to the stadium. Frozen in place by the bright lights centered on them, she paused just long enough to be swarmed by a multitude of people: stagehands, Ernesto's bodyguards, dancers, the orchestra, and news crews.

Lights began to pop all around her and she squinted, trying to see individual faces in the sea of skulls and bones that rushed her. She held up her hands to ward them off, their mouths moving but no sound coming out as their voices were drowned by thunderous applause from the arena spectators. Her mouth fell open and she backed away, treading on Rosita's toes by mistake as she gaped, utterly overwhelmed. The cameras continued to flash, microphones thrust into her face as the screaming reporters' questions finally began to make sense to her ears.

"Señora, what is your relationship to Ernesto de la Cruz?"

"Is it true that he stole songs? Can you give a statement?"

"Are you related to that living boy? What can you tell us about him?"

"What was it like to sing a duet with de la Cruz?"

"Did you know that he was a murderer?"

"Señora—" She suddenly inhaled a face full of blonde curls, coughing as the scent of cheap hairspray filled her skull. "I'm Gabriella Amarilla with the Channel 8 Morning Report." A petite skull emerged from the curls and she leaned away instinctively, looking in shock at the heavy red lipstick and neon yellow markings that inspired the reporter's stage name.

"I—"

"What can you tell us about the events of tonight? Were you a surprise part of the show? Can you confirm any of the allegations against de la Cruz?"

"A-allegations?" she repeated dumbly, slapping the hand of a cameraman who tried to turn her at a better angle. Oscar kicked at him with a scowl, forcing him to step back.

"Aren't you the face of the esteemed Rivera  _zapataría_?" The woman continued to throw question after question in rapid fire chatter, leaving no space to answer and raising her voice as others tried to speak over her. "Did Ernesto de la Cruz have a relationship to your shoes?" She stretched her neck, vertebrae visibly separating as she tried to see around Imelda. "Is that man," she asked, pointing over her shoulder to the unconscious Héctor, "Is he  _really_ the one who wrote all of Ernesto de la Cruz's songs? He's the one who wrote 'Remember Me'?"

"Get back!" she managed to croak, bodily putting herself between Héctor and the cameras. "Move aside!"

"But Señora—"

"I don't have time for this! Can't you see my husband's sick?!" The reporter's eyes lit up and she snapped at the cameraman to look alive.

"You said he's your husband?" she parroted eagerly. "This Señor Rivera, did we hear them say his name was Héctor?"

"We don't have time!" she repeated, trying to find a gap in the crowd. They're pressed in too tightly, with the ledge to their back and the clamoring reporters before them. A few of the dancers, seeing the panic in her face, try in vain to get the others to clear a path. They're too few; too quiet a voice amidst the ones bellowing for her to speak.

She looked back at Héctor, seeing the faintest glow wavering unsteadily through his bones.  _No! Not yet!_ If she had a heart, it would have beat frantically against her ribs as she searched for an escape route. Who'd have thought that sending Miguel home would be the easiest part of her night?

"Would you all just go away!?" She yelled, falling back on impoliteness in her desperation and beyond caring who saw. Let the whole world see her worried over a dying man! What did she care!? Her plea fell on deaf ears, the reporters just pressing in closer the more she tried to force them away. Trapped, she did the only thing she could think of: she whistled.

" _Pepita_!" Instantly a roar filled the stadium, shaking the rafters and knocking at least one stagehand off his feet. Screams erupted from the crowd as the  _alebrije_ landed over the Riveras like a mother cat hunched over kittens, roaring again in the faces of the reporters. She was something they  _couldn't_ ignore; they'd just watched the same  _alebrije_ knock Ernesto de la Cruz over the wall and into a bell, after all. Most of them scrambled back, dropping very expensive equipment as they turned to run for their lives.

"Quickly!" she shouted while they were distracted, waving her hands at her family. "Onto her back!"

"Señora!" Gabriella Amarilla had been knocked onto her rear, lost one pink high heel in the chaos and her blonde wig sat sideways on her skull. Still, she stumbled to her feet and picked up a microphone for the wrong news station, hobbling as fast as she could towards Pepita in a display of sheer bravery—or stupidity. "Señora Rivera, please!"

Meanwhile, Victoria was the first to waste no time, grabbing fistfuls of Pepita's fur as she climbed onto her back with the agility of a woman much younger. She turned around and yanked Rosita up by the arms, nearly dislocating her shoulders as her aunt squealed in surprise. Julio hesitated, looking fearfully at the  _alebrije's_  long fangs before being yanked up as well, grabbing his hat at the last second. The twins managed to haul Héctor up as well as themselves, making sure he was steadied before leaning over the edge once more.

" _Hermana_!" They each reached one long arm down, hands grabbing for her. She let them pull her up, clambering her way to sit directly behind Pepita's ears.

"Hang on," she advised them; they all grabbed as much fur as they could with frightened expressions, the twins looking anxiously at each other as they tried to secure both themselves and Héctor. She looked at him, deathly gray against Pepita's beautiful fur, and turned to press herself against her beloved spirit guide's neck. "Pepita, fly!"

One last roar shook the foundations of the stadium as her wings spread. She leapt from the ledge, diving towards the ground; Rosita screamed as she left her seat, Victoria and Julio somehow managing to grab one leg apiece and drag her back down against the wind.

"¡ _Despacio_ ,  _despacio_!" Oscar clapped a hand to his hat, wrapping his legs around both his twin and Héctor's midsection.  _We don't have time_ , she wanted to say, but kept her face buried in Pepita's Technicolor fur.  _Please…please last just a little longer, Héctor_ …. She wasn't sure if she was praying to him or for him.  _Please_.

* * *

The neighborhood was a ghost town.

The Riveras lived in a modest neighborhood reminiscent of the one the living Riveras still inhabited. Most of the people that lived there, working in businesses out of their houses, couldn't afford a ticket to the Sunrise Spectacular. But if they weren't already at home and asleep, they were stuck in the gridlock of returning souls at the Department of Family Reunions and simply hadn't made it back yet.

That was fine with them, as there were no one around to ask questions when Pepita landed in the courtyard. She folded her wings to keep from hitting the house, lowering herself to the ground so that the family could slide off her back without trouble. There was a touchy moment when the twins tried to maneuver Héctor, nearly dropping him. His spine separated and Oscar stumbled to the ground, holding his lower half while Felipe nearly fell headfirst from Pepita, clinging onto his torso for dear life.

"What are you  _doing_!?" His vertebrae tried to slide back together, the piece on the ground trembling as if it wanted to leap back into place but just didn't have the strength.

"He's falling apart!" Oscar complained, exhaustion pushing his usually mellow demeanor to the backburner. "What do you want us to do? Carry him in a bucket?"

"Whatever it is that keeps us together…" Victoria picked up the fallen bone, carefully clicking it back into place, "it's not working on him." Her voice was hushed, full of awe and fear.

"Of course it is!" She waited with bated breath, watching the vertebrae. It wobbled precariously, but held him together. "See?" She said with a triumph she didn't feel, her voice strained. "He's fine." The twins and her granddaughter looked at her, their eyes all saying the same thing. She turned away, swallowing hard before walking towards the house. "Come on, let's get him inside."

"Mamá—"

" _He's fine_." She marched through the back door, leaving them to follow as Rosita held it open for the boys. "He'll be the most comfortable in my bedroom." No one dared to contradict her; they crept behind her in a single-file procession, the twins hoisting their brother-in-law higher to avoid hitting his head against the kitchen table.

She lit the gas lamp in the kitchen, holding it aloft. She lowered it only once Victoria had found the switch for the downstairs electric light, continuing up alone and leaving them to climb the stairs after her. The hallway was pitch black, the flame of the lamp throwing her face into flickering shadow. She saw herself reflected in the hall mirror, a ghastly image from another realm that could easily fuel many urban legends.

"Um… Mamá Imelda?" Rosita hurried to catch up, grabbing her by the sleeve. "You know… I can sleep with Victoria. You can have my bed."

"Or mine," Felipe offered. "I can share with Oscar; I'm sure you're just as ready to get some sleep as—"

"I'm not tired." It was a lie; she couldn't remember a time where she had been more tired. She'd ran around the Land of the Dead in search of one little boy, saved the same boy and her estranged husband from a cenote, dressed as Frida Kahlo, exchanged blows with a murderer, danced in front of a live audience, and on top of it all, she had missed an  _ofrenda_  visit for the first time since her death. She couldn't  _begin_ to fathom just how tired she was.

But she couldn't sleep. No, that was not true, either; if she even attempted rest, she would most likely sleep until the next  _Dia de Los Muertos_. But if she closed her eyes and woke up to nothing but dust and empty, pitiful rags… she didn't know exactly  _what_  she would do, but it wouldn't be good. "I'm going to sit with him, for when he wakes up."

"M-Mamá Imelda—" Rosita stopped her, turning her so that their eyes met. She looked back at the twins, licking her lips nervously. "I… I don't think he's  _going_  to—"

"He won't know where he's at." She pulled herself out of Rosita's grasp, walking quickly to hold her bedroom door open and light the way. "Someone needs to sit with him, so he won't be confused."

"At least let one of us watch over him while you rest." Julio tugged on his mustache, glancing at his sister and shaking his head when she went to speak. "You've been awake a day and a night already, Mamá."

" _I_ will watch him." He sighed, but didn't press further. "Here. Put him down, and  _don't_ let him separate again." The twins obeyed, setting him on top of the homemade quilt that adorned her bed. She had made it herself during those first long, lonely months after her death, when she had needed something to occupy her mind. It was hard to think about how lost and alone you were when trying to piece together colors without making a mistake or slipping a stitch.

Normally, she would have had a complete come-apart at the sight of something so filthy and ragged on her bed. But right now, she didn't care in the slightest. Even if his grayed bones had permanently stained the pale white background, ruining the quilt so that no amount of scrubbing could get the dirt out, she wouldn't have said a word. It was a testament; solid proof that he had been here, however briefly.

"Mamá Imelda?" Victoria came into the room, holding her washbasin with both hands. She set it on the bedside table, already full of water from the faucet. She handed her a dry cloth with a small smile before backing away, resettling her glasses. "I left his hat downstairs," she said softly. "I thought… I mean…."

"That's fine." She made a big show of wetting the cloth, wringing it out again and again before folding it into a square, only to repeat the process. If she pretended to busy herself, she didn't have to look at their knowing, sympathetic faces. "Just because I'm awake doesn't mean you have to be," she told them, keeping her back turned. "Go get some sleep."

"But—"

"You said it yourself, Felipe. It's been an…  _eventful_ evening, but  _Dia de Los Muertos_ is over. It's time to sleep." No one moved. "Go on!" she snapped. "Don't just stand there looking at me!"

"Alright." Rosita pecked her on the cheek quickly, looking once at Héctor before letting out a watery squeak of "Goodnight!"

"Goodnight, Rosita." She all but ran from the room, sniffing loudly. Julio watched her, sliding his hat off his head and creeping up to the bed, looking down at its lone occupant like a mourner standing beside a coffin.

" _Ay_ …." He reached out and patted Héctor's nearest hand once before doing the same to his mother-in-law. "Goodnight, Mamá."

"Goodnight, Julio. I'm sorry you didn't get to see Coco."

"Well, at least I'll have one heck of a story to tell her someday, no? I think she'd laugh at me in a dress." He chuckled, but the sound fell empty in the room. "Goodnight," he whispered again, turning to walk out.

"I think I'll go check the doors and windows," Victoria said suddenly. "I've heard stories about the paparazzi, and we  _do_ have our address in all the phonebooks." Imelda nodded.

"That's a good idea,  _mija_. Pepita can guard the back, but I think this is something we'll be hearing about for a  _long_  time to come."

"I agree." Victoria strode bravely to the bed, looking down at her grandfather with a peculiar expression. Then she turned to embrace Imelda, squeezing tightly the way she had when she was a little girl. "Goodnight, Mamá Imelda."

"Goodnight, Victoria." She turned on her heel and left without another word, leaving her alone with the twins. They tiptoed behind her, looking over her shoulders at Héctor's pale, empty face. For a long moment they were all silent, watching the slow rise and fall of his chest.

"Imelda," Oscar murmured, leaning forward so that she could hear. He cleared his throat. "Erm… you do know that… well—"

"We're right next door," Felipe picked up where his brother left off, copying his posture on her right side. "If you call us, we'll hear you."

"And we'll come."

"If you… if you  _need_ someone—" A certain note in their voices made her turn from the bed for the first time, looking up at them. They grew sheepish, glancing askance at each other.

"You know," Oscar repeated. "When… when the time comes, if you don't want to be alone—"

"Like with Mamá—well, you remember—"

"Not that we don't trust Miguel, but—" They looked past her to Héctor, their faces saying more than enough.  _Not that we don't trust Miguel, but what can one little boy do?_

"Just call out if you need us. We'll keep our ears open." It was a simple offer of help, but it nearly broke her; she had to lower her head to hide her trembling jaw. She took Felipe's right hand and Oscar's left, holding them in hers. Even though they were bones, she could still see her young hands holding two boyish ones, fingers plump with baby fat as she led them around the country lanes surrounding their childhood home.

" _Gracias, mis hermanos_." She squeezed their hands, thanking her lucky stars for having such a caring  _familia_. Her baby brothers, who had always been there for her no matter what. Even in her own death; her last memories were of them bent over her, caring for her whenever her stubborn Coco collapsed of fatigue, talking softly about their childhood together as she faded out of one world and into the next. "If I need help, you will be the first to know. I promise."

"Goodnight, Imelda."

"Goodnight." She dropped their hands and they left, Felipe in front and Oscar in back, the same way it always was and always would be. Oscar shut the door behind him and finally, thankfully, she was left alone. Her first act was to open the window, letting in the fresh night air; Pepita's eye peered in and then her nose, snuffing at the bedroom before letting out a purring growl. "Shh, Pepit-it-ita," she crooned, rubbing the shaggy head before drawing the curtains.

She dragged the chair from her boudoir over to the bedside table, nearly collapsing in it; she slumped for a long moment, eyes shut wearily, before straightening into a more ladylike posture. She rewet the cloth, dampening it and dotting the worst of the dust from his skull with careful, practiced motions. His colorful markings brightened somewhat, streaks left by the cloth fading as she worked over him. She cleaned him down to his upper ribs, taking care to dip behind his jaw and between his neck bones.

When she was through, she refolded the cloth and placed it on his forehead, smoothing his hair out of the way. She wondered if it even helped in this type of situation, but quickly disregarded the notion. When someone was ill you put a cool cloth on their forehead, skeleton or not. It was better to cover all her bases. She picked up his hand, placing it between hers and warming his fingers while she stared at him, the gas lamp's light slowly fading under the brighter glow of the rising sun.

Now that she had a moment, she looked more closely at his skull markings. She hadn't had time to notice before, not between worrying over Miguel, planning his return to the living world, and Ernesto's villainous tantrum on the ledge. Now she stared at them, taking note of the shapes and trying to guess their meaning.

Each skull had unique markings; even the twins had the faintest of alterations in their otherwise identical pattern, with Oscar sporting an extra dot on his left eye socket and Felipe on his right. They were a pattern based off a soul's personality, their likes and dislikes, the things they'd loved most about their life. The markings were a story, played out over a face and holding significant meaning.

Some people were covered with markings, looking like a mask rather than a skull. Some had hardly any at all, save for a line here, a dot there. Imelda's favorite shades of purple marked her eyes, which she had long believed to be her best feature. The twins had devilish little curls on their chins, a mark to their mischievous natures. Rosita had floral vines and bright pinks to match her bubbly personality. And Héctor?

Now that she looked, she could see the cataclysm of color that made up his exuberant personality. His brow was a fiesta of swirls that dipped in and out from beneath the wet cloth, covering his forehead in brilliant designs. Dots and stripes highlighted the cheekbones he was so proud of, looking as if an artist had dipped a paintbrush and smoothed it along the rise. Even the faintest green, curling and decorating just above the bit of chin hair he never shaved off. It was a loud, expressive face that caught one's attention and didn't let go.

Perfect for a  _grito_ -belting  _músico_.

She let go of his hand to trace one of the marks on his cheekbone; her thumb matched it perfectly, as if she'd painted it on him herself. Peering closer, she saw the yellowed mark was outline in a faint, lovely shade of purple. Looking back at the mirror for confirmation, her other hand reached up to the pale leaves on her own cheeks. Yes, they were in almost the same spot, too….

It was surprising, but not shocking. If she had thought about it, she might have been offended if she  _wasn't_ on his list of things he'd loved in life. It would have certainly made more sense… at least, until tonight. Now that she knew the truth, his love for her literally painted on his face was just what she'd have expected.

But the mark on her cheek… had that always represented him? She had been a little confused about what it meant, but she had always loved trees and just assumed that it was a representation of that. But now, it was impossible to ignore how closely they seemed to be tied to his markings.

_That's for murdering the love of my life!_

"Ay," she sighed, rubbing over her face wearily. She had spoken those words without thinking, but now she saw—quite literally—that it was the truth. Even now, after all the lonely years, after all the  _heartache_  he put her through… she still loved him. She had known a part of her would always love him, but she had thought it would be a simple matter to let her anger take hold, pushing it away until she could forget him and his damned music. But she had never been able to forget, not entirely.  _I should have known that even when he was dead to me, he'd still have some hold. That's just the kind of man he is. So infuriating, but…._

"Héctor." If only he would wake up! She took his hand again, holding it as gently as she would a fledgling bird. If he would just open his eyes and make some silly joke, or some half-assed apology,  _something_! Then she could get mad at him; being angry would be much better than this, worrying and filled with a nagging guilt that if she had just been a  _little_ faster, gained them just one more second!

If she had been paying more attention to her surroundings, or strong enough to yank Miguel out of Ernesto's clutches, then perhaps things would have turned out so differently! As long as Miguel was safe, she could have dealt with Ernesto herself. Even if he was a filthy murderer, able to lift her over his head without breaking a sweat; she could have handled  _anything_  just as long as Miguel was safe, home with Héctor's picture. If only, if only….

"Co…co…." It was barely a wheeze, a death rattle echoing from an empty ribcage. But it was a  _sound_. She reacted instantly, freshening the cloth on his forehead and leaning over him protectively, smoothing his rumpled clothing. He groaned softly, the sound dying away into a shaky, shallow breath.

"Shh,  _mi amor_ , I'm here. Shh _…_ " There she went again, saying things without thinking. She had made herself a promise to never call him that again, as long as she was still of sound mind. She remembered it well, repeating it to herself on that fateful night, when she realized that his mind was made up, that he'd never reconsider his decision to leave her, to leave his  _daughter_.

She shook her head; she didn't want to think about that  _now_ , not with him facing his Final Death. It wasn't appropriate to think of all the ways he had wronged her, when he had no time or means to defend himself. It was better to think of the good things, to remember all the ways he had made her laugh, how he had loved her during their brief time together in the living world.

Yes, she should do as Oscar and Felipe had done, when she lay on her deathbed. They hadn't mentioned the fierce sibling rivalries, the pranks taken too far, how they sold each other out to their parents, the bucket of water on her head in midwinter, the way she had pushed them down the stairs  _once_  (never again, after she was sure Felipe's neck wasn't broken).

Instead, they had talked of long summer afternoons at the riverside, how she had given them part of her own pocket money to buy snacks at the plaza, dancing with her and Lucía in the empty bar, family dinners filled with laughter, the way she had found them crying in their bedroom on her wedding day all because she wouldn't be walking home with them that night. They had talked of Coco and shoes, of their goofiest inventions, until she would have laughed along with them had she the strength and spare breath.

She thought of all the good things she could remember with Héctor: all the way back past their marriage, past the courtship, past that first dance, the first word, all the way to that first fateful meeting, so many, many,  _many_ years ago. She could smile at those days now that they were long gone, remembering with fondness what had once made her angry beyond belief.

"Héctor." She looked down at him, tracing the bones of his fingers as she spoke. "Do you remember the first time you ever tried to talk to me?" She couldn't help but chuckle, albeit sadly. "I certainly do…."


End file.
